


river of time

by vanitaslaughing



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Drabble Collection, Patch 5.2: Echoes of a Fallen Star Spoilers, altima and the trouble of having a spell named after her, deudalaphon watches their predecessor invent mini golf, elidibus voice Ah Fuck, emet-selch floats down the lifestream and gets called a bitch asmr, emmerololth is here for a book time, fandaniel gets stabbed by a dead man asmr, halmaruts ruined veggie garden, hythlodaeus accepts the seat on the convocation au, igeyorhm voice: hey shithead go and eat something, lahabrea is lahabrea once again idk what you Want from Me, loghrif gets a rude awakening, mitron verbally kills a man, nabriales is.... nabriales idk what you want from me, pashtarot after the fall of amaurot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/pseuds/vanitaslaughing
Summary: They weren't always thirteen, but perhaps that was what they had always been supposed to be.(thirteen plus one non-connected drabbles about each member of of the convocation)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Aries, Fists of Wind

The world as far as he had known it burst into flame. At the foot of the mountain atop which his home lay, he stood and stared up in horror as burning debris tumbled down the cliffs.

It had been so simple. So utterly, utterly simple. He was a royal messenger—and royal messengers ran. They ran like the winds that blew through the empire, light on their feet and faster than anyone else. A simple trip, a most simple trip that had not taken longer than usual. The tides of war changed but this mountain range was so far away that surely no enemies of the empire would come here.

He stopped for but an hour to catch his breath; an hour he spent talking with a stranger in even stranger robes. There was something sinister about the man with the fanged mask, but he spoke like a court researcher from the capital. Surely he was one of these men—they all bore masks there anyway.

Then he carried on, was to forward an evacuation notice to his own home. His home that was burning, burning, burning as the sun set behind it. It was surreal. This village was of no consequence, shepherds first and foremost and non-essential to the empire as it was. Why was it aflame? What precisely was rolling down the mountain, alight and trailing fire behind it like comets, a starshower of horror?

A dull, throbbing pain announced a headache as he stared at the sight before him, his body unresponsive despite the fact that his innermost desire was to run, run, run as fast as he could either into the flames or away from them.

He thought he was hearing things.

Then, suddenly, silence.

He but saw the clawed fingertips of the court researcher he had spoken to earlier as the man pressed his hands against his ears.

“Listen not to the false goddess’ pleas. Banish the agony and euphoria She would have you suffer. Empty your mind and heart.” Had the man sounded so terrifying but familiar before? “Remember a truth buried. Remember your name, your true name—remember us.”

However much time passed, he knew not. Minutes turned into hours, hours into years. The fires died, but not in his mind. He heard those screams he had forgotten, felt the heat of a city falling, thought of nothing but the fading star below.

“Tell me,” a voice he knew belonged to Lahabrea whispered behind him, “do you remember your true name?”

His legs gave in, suddenly too small and weak despite the fact he—no, this mortal, this farce—was known as the one who withstood all tempests and winds standing tall.

“My name,” he croaked, suddenly all-too aware of the fact he was not wearing a mask. “It is not yours for the taking, Speaker.”

A snort as Lahabrea walked around him to kneel down in front of him. Clawed fingers under his chin, and he was forced to look up at the familiar mask. “So give me a title to call you by, then, my brethren.” 

The winds howled through the mountains and carried the smell of ash and soot and burnt flesh with them. He had run with them all his life, here as well as back home—his true home, the home he remembered now.

“Loghrif, the Transcendent.”


	2. Taurus, Fluid Aura

“Which _genius_ left the specimen unattended?”

The argument had been going on for the better part of an hour, and he was leaning against another fish tank with his arms crossed and a highly amused grin on his lips by now. Beside him, Loghrif was all but wringing his hands. And beside Loghrif sat, timid like a pet, the escaped specimen. 

Mitron may have been the Chastiser, but truth be told every single person working under him chastised one another more than he ever opened his mouth in general. The specimen had already confessed what had happened, its meaning easy to interpret despite the fact that it did not speak at all. There were only a handful people who did know that this specimen was capable of breathing on land as well as underwater—and the process of elimination made finding the guilty party exceedingly easy.

“Mitron, do you not suppose it is high time you intervened?”

“No, I quite enjoy the play Orpheus is putting on. ‘Tis more entertaining than most lectures I would have had to give today, in any case.” Mitron rolled his eyes and stood back up straight with a sigh. “Alas. It is high time I put an end to the charade. The last thing I do want is having to work overtime and missing dinner with your parents. Again. They might cull me if my nebulous duty keeps me from their delightful attempts to poison me.”

The specimen waddled alongside him with an excited squeal, and with a wave of his hand Mitron fixed the broken tank and filled it with water once more. The argument that had gone on in circles for an eternity and a half died in everyone’s throats as they turned around to see who ruined the crime scene, and Mitron put on a disarming smile when the entire group all but shrank away. The specimen chirped some more, bouncing up and down excitedly, and Mitron shrugged. 

“While you were arguing, I did happen to find our escaped friend in the Words of Lahabrea, picking a fight with a phantom. Had I been later, it would not have returned in one piece. Rather than argue next time, see to catching a specimen before shifting blame. Orpheus.”

The man straightened a little, unaware that he had been found out. Mitron shooed the specimen towards the tank, and it jumped back in on top with a delighted squeal—he sealed the top with a small jerk of his hand.

“Next time you attempt to sow chaos so your daughter can skip a lecture, make sure you look behind yourself. This specimen more than certainly lacks the strength to pierce thick glass, and you were the sole person on duty when it escaped who knew it could breathe on land. Nice try; please come to my office in an hour. The rest, back to your lectures and duties.” Mitron clapped his hands.

The specimen in the tank behind the scattering group clapped its fins together with a high-pitched noise.


	3. Gemini, Cascade

For all the dancing he did with his plots to see mortal societies rise and fall, the end was quieter than he would have imagined. He half expected the Lifestream, controlled as it was by Hydaelyn, to revolt against the many, many pieces of aether that had once made up his soul. It was like a starshower as he floated down the river, literally. He clung to his sense of self, broken as he was—all mortals believed that eventually they would dissolve here, but even though he had lost, Emet-Selch was not about to go silently into that glittering whorl of aether. 

In passing, he caught glimpses of rather familiar and distinct aetherial shapes that had differing states of dissolution to them.

The passing shade of that piece of Nabriales from the Twelfth they had risen had already lost all sense of self, was barely more than a vague outline that raised a hand in greeting as he passed.

Mitron and Loghrif answered, their voices distant and quiet and their features slowly crumbling into glittering, glittering aether.

Igeyorhm ignored him, the icy sheen to her aether defiantly strong despite the fact she, too, had been shattered in the same way he had been. 

Were he still in control of his powers, perhaps this swirling mass of aether that seemed to be made of many conflicting pieces with a distinct core to it would have manifested as part man, part holy knight, part dragon. For a long while Emet-Selch was not certain what to make of it; he had merely gotten a rather abridged version of what had happened that had snuffed Igeyorhm and Lahabrea out almost simultaneously. Then after what both felt like an instant and an eternity at the same time, the undefined clot of conflicting aether shivered slightly—a breathy, non-haughty laugh that Lahabrea had not laughed since the very day they had called forth Zodiark. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said, and Emet-Selch could imagine the grin on his face. “Deserved as it was—albeit yours appears to have been less… messy.”

The Lifestream flowed differently than the Underworld had had; before he could say anything in return, Lahabrea was taken away on a different current and Emet-Selch remained afloat, acutely aware of how bright and cheerful this flowing mess of aether was despite the fact that it was made of all that had once lived.

“The dark and gloomy always suited you, but I would have thought eternal rest would see you smile for once,” a very familiar voice whispered.

What remained of Emet-Selch flinched—that was not a voice he had heart in an eternity. What little he saw in this shining, shimmering and moving mess obscured what remained of his vision to the highest degree, and yet he heard that distinct cackle that could only belong to one person.

He opened his mouth.

A mass of aether all but washed over him, drowned him in something that he vaguely made out to be sweet in nature. Once. Before something or someone reduced it to its base aetherial components.

For a long moment all was still.

Then an approximation of Hythlodaeus and countless souls that had not truly become one with the Lifestream beside him started laughing in unison while Emet-Selch cursed fighting his way back on top of the very untimely delivered gift from the living world. The aetherial signature was familiar; his own, overlaid with what he remembered of the man whose laugh was dying down.

“Oh dear,” said Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch still failed to spot where he was properly. “In your overeagerness to recreate me, it seems you forgot that even I, bane of your existence as you dubbed me, had some respect for the dead. Nice try, Hades, very nice try. But I would not reduce a hundred sweets to send to the dead, even if I knew they would receive it.”

“Shut up,” Emet-Selch muttered back.

“Oh, I very much shall not! I did quite miss you and your half-hearted attempts at making yourself sound tougher than you are. You have an eternity to atone for; start atoning by telling me _everything._ Not even Hydaelyn could think of a better punishment than that—I will be Her judge, jury and executioner, much to your simultaneous delight and dismay… once I help you out of that sweet, sweet mess you are in.”


	4. Gemini, Reverse Cascade

Slap!

He raised an eyebrow underneath his mask and looked up at the intruder who had so rudely smacked a stack of papers onto his neatly ordered desk. Unsurprisingly, he stared into a familiar white mask framed by equally short white hair, and the stack-bringer was scowling deeply as was his wont.

“And a wonderful good evening to you, too, Chief,” he chimed up cheerfully—the other’s scowl merely deepened.

“Pray excuse the intrusion, _Emet-Selch,_ but I was told these were some urgent papers that needed your sig—“

He had reached over and started leafing through the stack. “Mhm. Lahabrea did leave his office for once, did he now. Well, urgent usually means they are related to some sort of aetherial control systems needing a check-up when they should not require one for the next century or so, and—yes, indeed, the central Akademia aetherflux system and the lower Akademia aetherdrain channels. Quite surprising he has not requested the upper Akademia aetherstream roots to be checked…. I can hear you tapping your foot impatiently.”

Slowly he readjusted his mask and grinned up at the still-standing man who tried to hide the fact that he was annoyed. It was a dance by this point, a routine that some might have called comedic in nature but that he knew was born from their conflicting yet complementing personalities.

It just made him wonder how all of this would have gone had he refused the title and honour; it was no secret that Hades would have been the next logical choice for Emet-Selch.

“Pray tell, what vexes and haunts you this time, Chief Hades?”

“Emet-Selch… screw it. Hythlodaeus. All these systems were checked less than a decade ago. What on good earth is going on at Akademia Anyder for Lahabrea to run around looking like a haunted broom that has been extensively chewed on and then slamming a stack of papers requesting check-up for the most important aether distributors into my arms with not even a word other than ‘Emet-Selch, now’?”

Many voices in Amaurot called the current Emet-Selch’s good spirits almost unhinged. He had always been known for being in eerily good cheer no matter the situation, but few people saw him when the mask fell. He had his own principles and worked according to them, while Hades kept the Amaurotine standards close to his heart.

Thus, Hythlodaeus drew a finger across one of the lines on his mask and dropped the smile.

“That I cannot tell you, Hades; Chief of my Bureau or not. It is confidential and not meant to leave the Convocation meeting rooms quite yet.”

They were working on a solution to an issue no one had ever foreseen. The world was ending, piece by horribly corrupted piece. Most discussions in the streets were talking about what if it reached them—the Convocation was discussing the _when._ They would be prepared—or would be as well-prepared as they could.

“Lahabrea is researching ways to stop the coming doom, is he not.”

“You were always sharper than you needed to be.”

“Do not deflect, Architect!”

He folded his hands together with a sigh. “We all are, Hades.”

Perhaps Hades would have handled this better. With more grace. Hells, the more he thought about it the more he started to realise that perhaps he had made the wrong choice by not declining the title. Someone with Hades’ skills would serve the Convocation and Amaurot at large much better than sheer cold logic and an optimistic attitude.

But, alas, it was too late to change it.

They would have to make do.


	5. Cancer, Equilibrium

The Hall of Rhetoric was supposed to be their prowling ground—but now they were nowhere to be found, the collapsed spires a dreary reminder of the doom Amaurot had barely managed to avoid.

Pashtarot never quite said a lot, but he wasn’t _blind._ In fact, ever since Zodiark had risen and saved them not once but twice at a tremendous cost, he would argue that his sight had become sharper. Nowhere near as sharp as the former Chief of the Bureau of the Architect, but not a single living being could win in a straight comparison with him. Not that anyone could compare their sight with him any longer—the man was dead, crushed underneath a collapsing building as he shooed a handful of children that had huddled in there in fear out.

He saw them sulking about in the distance, far away from prying eyes.

Once, they had been comrades united under the same oaths. They had betrayed that oath and abandoned Amaurot when it needed them most; they were not worthy of his attention.

He was here for a reason, after all. With the world back in the balance it was time to resume their duty as stewards with the Convocation of Thirteen at the head of that group of stewards. Not too long ago he had fought tooth and nail, had stood on the precipice of despair and watched their star burn while desperately fighting off one last abomination. Now he stood in the ruined streets of Amaurot with his head held high and a duty—all of them had been sent to different parts of Amaurot to restore something.

Pashtarot ignored that flare of agony in that crystalline blue soul not too far away when he raised his hand. Emet-Selch usually did his duty as Architect with a snap of his fingers and a surprisingly smug smile on his face. He was… not one for overly flashy and dramatic flourishes. No, that seemed inappropriate. A swell of aether, broken stone that mended, glass windows made of once shattered shards and little scorched pieces. This place had been the handiwork of the first Emet-Selch and as a member of the Convocation following in their footsteps it was his duty to see it restored to its former glory. He ever so gently wiped the soot off, corrected the scorch marks, realigned the broken, shattered, crushed details just as he and everyone else remembered them. What had become a death trap to several people returned to its previous state with the bloodstains wiped off, the arches repaired and the debate rooms… empty.

Empty like the streets around Pashtarot when he dropped the arm.

This was their home. The city they had sworn to protect. The people who had given everything to see the survivors saved would be returned to them—having become Zodiark or not, Elidibus was a man of his word. Perhaps he, too, would return.

They merely had to do their sworn duty.

They owed that much to those who died both for Zodiark or while trying to protect their fellow man.


	6. Leo, Divine Veil

A slight miscalculation on their part. Nothing they couldn’t correct, of course; while they were no Emet-Selch in the scheming department they were better at it than Lahabrea. Not that they were going to speak ill of the dead, may Lahabrea have finally gotten rid of the madness that consumed him in life now that he was in the cold embrace of death.

Fandaniel had parted with their partners quite a while ago. The black-masked leftovers of Lahabrea’s underlings had departed at their suggestion because they had noticed they were being trailed. In the last few months many of these leftovers had vanished in the dead sands of the Burn, but they had been so woefully understaffed that no one had gone and taken care of it. Emet-Selch had been roused and he was not known for finding his fellows deliberately. Lahabrea had scoured the Source, combed through it like a man possessed and risen each and every single shard he came across. He had been responsible for most of his fellows awakening to their true memories. Fandaniel themself had been awakened by him.

But now he was gone. He and Mitron, Loghrif, Nabriales and Igeyorhm. The Convocation’s seats were empty when they had once been full, and Fandaniel kneaded their robes while grinding their teeth.

Whoever was trailing them was good at hiding—but not good enough to hide their aether.

A Garlean, it seemed. Their aetheric composition was interesting due to their inability to manipulate aether. Emet-Selch was, once again, more eloquent when it came to that part, having spent a mortal lifetime as the first Emperor and all that.

But Garleans rarely ventured this far into the Burn, doubly so since Doma had wrenched itself out of Garlemald’s control just the other week. The Warrior of Light ran rampant and slowly but steadily undid everything that Emet-Selch had so deliberately worked towards.

Fandaniel took a deep breath—an unfortunate side-effect of having a mortal vessel. They needed to breathe. They were visible to mortals.

They opened their mouth to tell those mortals that they had noticed them stalking them, but something made them pause. There was something about the aether on the centre mortal in that little group. Something… familiar. As if they had seen that composition of aether before, somewhere… on someone. The members of the Convocation involved with Garlemald at length they could count on one hand. Emet-Selch it was not, they knew that much.

Lahabrea.

They had seen this aetheric composition beside Lahabrea.

Which meant… but no. No, the Light Rampant, Hydaelyn’s little servant on the Source, had eradicated that particular Garlean to get to Lahabrea and to feed their own light’s growth. This was impossible.

Fandaniel whirled around.

Just in time for the supposedly dead Gaius van Baelsar to drive his weapon through their unfortunately very mortal body. As much as they were immortal, while possessing a vessel they were still very much capable of feeling pain. Of feeling just how precisely he had driven his unwieldy, ugly little weapon through their insufferably mortal heart.

One of the man’s companions yanked their mask off their face, and the sheer indignity made Fandaniel seethe for a moment. A war trophy, taken from a being that would not die if killed that way. Gaius van Baelsar should know that, but his face was an unmoving mask.

What an unfortunate loss of a vessel, albeit they more feared the loss of the mask. Elidibus would have a layer of their soul for losing that.

They departed their vessel when Gaius van Baelsar yanked the weapon out of its heart.

What a severe miscalculation.


	7. Virgo, Art of War

Just how much did the Source _remember?_ There was absolutely no way of knowing, but she crossed her arms with a scowl and watched the scene that had been carefully and lovingly orchestrated below. The rise and fall of kingdoms and empires was a deliberately and painstakingly crafted swell of manipulation and letting go when necessary, and this one in particular had been a masterwork if one asked her. Working together with the Unsundered was an honour few had—the Martyr had all but demanded the Speaker for herself and the Emissary was not going to leave his post. The fact that she had been granted permission to work with the Architect was perhaps one of the most important things. 

He, too, seemed to be grinning into his hands as they watched the scene unfold from their vantage point. 

Warriors of Light, Hydaelyn’s little meddlesome child warriors. All of them marching like the little tin soldiers they were, into the waiting beast’s gaping maw. They had no way of defeating this creation, not in their current state. All they could do was seal it and hope that one day another one like them would arrive and deal it a killing blow. Ivalice was doomed if it was left running rampant. 

But here she was, a frown on her face as she turned to Emet-Selch. 

“Tell me—did they come up with this thing’s name by themselves, or did you perhaps nudge them towards naming it after me?”

Emet-Selch was unusually giddy from what she saw. “Oh, dearest Altima. Ever the horrendously stiff warrior—stronger than the rest of us, armed to the teeth with little weapons made of stagnant aether to pierce creations gone rampant from too much activity. What makes you think I would offer your name to mortals butchered to some degree?” 

Were he his former Chief from Amaurot, then she would have had a not-answer for an answer. The man had been a trickster to some degree, reaping not what he sowed but instead managing to twist it into whatever he wanted. Emet-Selch by comparison had adopted quite a few mannerisms he remembered to get that same effect, though mortals were disgustingly easy to manipulate with just enough honey slathered around the words. 

After a long moment of silence, Emet-Selch shrugged and dropped the amused grin. “I did not interfere in this the slightest. It would seem that to some degree the Source is starting to remember; albeit your little stagnant weapons have turned into blasts of overwhelming light that they named after you. Ultima, the strongest of spells, rather than Altima, strongest of warriors. It was not my doing, but it is an interesting corruption of dormant knowledge, don’t you think?” 

Perhaps she should have been flattered. 

But Altima watched the scene with growing disdain and displeasure. What a joke. Half-remembered truths, and her own name corrupted into both a spell and a creature slinging that spell around. 

May Ivalice fall in blinding light at Ultima’s hands. 

Altima herself would wash her hands clean of it before it fell. 


	8. Libra, Fated Circle

Crime as per its definition was at a very precise low and had been at that low for a staggering amount of time. Perhaps they were growing a tad complacent, but the fact that no one had to steal to make ends meet meant that Amaurot had finally reached the point that the first Convocation had envisioned for the city when they had lain the foundation and raised the first buildings of the Polyleritae District. 

Which, of course, meant that she was positively seething for once as she stood amidst her ruined gardens. 

No creation had waltzed through here—Mitron’s more ambitious creatures that could walk on land and Lahabrea’s more experimental nonsense were all well-behaved… or well-contained. No, Halmarut saw the footprints that someone who had dug through the Mandragora gardens left on the stone floor. Upturned earth was still upturned earth, and it clung to shoes and robes alike. 

Whoever it had been, they had made a point in breaking every stalk of the student’s gardens as well; flowers that were supposed to glitter and feel like freshly fallen snow even in the heat of summer had been a favourite learning creator’s project of her, and now every single plant had been trampled down and snapped. It was as simple as fetching another concept crystal from Anamnesis, of course, but just the fact that someone had ruined the student’s gardens made her even madder than the fact someone had gone and slaughtered her predecessor’s little panopts. 

“Fascinating,” a familiar voice rasped beside her, and truly, _truly,_ she had never wanted to throttle the man more than right now.

“Are you here to help or are you here to gloat, Nabriales.”

“The former, of course,” he said and when she turned to glower at him, she saw that his trademark smug grin had been wiped off his face. Or perhaps he had not been wearing it the entire time. “It happens so rarely—and the fact that it hit your department out of all of ours it more than cause for concern. After all, effectively every non-magical sort of medicine comes from your department, and someone just not only overhauled the medicinal gardens with a touch of chaos, no, they also ruined your passion projects in addition.”

He moved, his boots clinking against the marble floor, and Halmarut followed with a deep scowl on her face. She was shaking in barely contained anger by the time Nabriales leaned down to gently poke a clawed finger into a stomped flat Mandragora. 

“Such barely contained violence, against so harmless a creature—whoever steamrolled through here is a danger to society,” Nabriales snarled as he got back up. “The gardens I will help you fix—as much passion as you and your students poured into it, I will not let all of you suffer on your own.”

“….”

“The reason I came here is to tell you that Igeyorhm and her department are on the case. They picked up an aetherial trail just outside after Lahabrea summoned them—it would seem that muddied footprints led out through the roof. Whoever is responsible for this, they will be apprehended within the next moon, worry not.”

Halmarut had leaned down next to the trampled Mandragora in the meanwhile and reached out to realign its broken aether. While it looked like a bruised vegetable not, it chirped once Nabriales finished and the two of them watched it wobble off in silence. 

Whenever Igeyorhm caught that person they would personally violently transform them into a hideous beast meant to protect her gardens as punishment. Cruel, perhaps, but after seeing her garden in such a ruined state, Halmarut swore to pay back that pain thousandfold. Then she moved over to properly instruct Nabriales in how to weave the garden’s aether back together. 


	9. Scorpio, Miasma

Frankly, he was seeing red. Completely and almost as badly as the still rather injured Lahabrea saw red whenever the Warrior of Light or the Scions of the Seventh Dawn were mentioned. As much as he loathed admitting that to himself, he was starting to understand just why their already completely insane with rage Speaker turned into a raving lunatic when someone mentioned the Source’s Warrior of Light. 

All his hard, painstaking work into all but seducing one of Hydaelyn’s little Chosen had been undone with all but a shake of a weapon in less than a bell. Iceheart had gone from wrapped around his little finger as he promised her sweet nothings related to the dragon who had granted her clarity to furiously stomping in circles as she digested her defeat despite her dreams having been fulfilled. He had spent so much time whispering in her ears, telling her that she could indeed become the Saint Shiva she had seen in her Echo visions if she but became a vessel for her soul, conveniently leaving out the fact that dead meant dead in Hydaelyn’s little world and all she would be doing would be inviting a goddess of her own invention to rest within her own essence. 

Undone. 

Simply undone. 

And here one of those infuriating Scions and the very Warrior of Light were, invading his latest prowling grounds with heavens knew what nonsense they were trying to accomplish with that strange white chunk of rock and the corrupted crystals that littered the landscapes of Northern Thanalan. Were he less furious, he would have simply departed and started the dance anew elsewhere with another beast tribe. Apparently Lahabrea and Igeyorhm had tempted the Archbishop of Ishgard—he could still rally Iceheart, and if all else failed there were plenty of other beast tribes around and about that felt threatened by mortals. Perhaps the Goblins were an interesting choice for once; Lahabrea and Igeyorhm had turned their gazes from the Archbishop to the Vanu Vanu and the Vath. There was also the thrill of directly messing with imperial grounds and the subjugated beast tribes there now that Emet-Selch had departed the mortal coil to nap somewhere. 

But no, here he was, just out of the Echo’s reach and he watched those two while grinding his teeth. 

Zodiark preserve him. 

He was doing the same thing that Lahabrea did and that made him completely incapable and not deserving of a single slice of respect. 

And though he did not need to breathe, Nabriales took a deep, deep breath in that very moment. If he but wanted to, he could have appeared to heckle the Warrior of Light—apparently they had even nearly attacked the Emissary until he reminded them of what an Emissary did. It could have been rather amusing to show himself to them and their Scion friend. 

Suddenly, the Warrior of Light turned around and stared almost directly at him. 

Oh well. 

They were in no position to harm him, the Scion was new but mortals were predictable, and he might as well heckle them for the hell of it before moving on to, as Halmarut would have said, greener pastures. He could always deal with the nuisances later. 


	10. Sagittarius, Stormbite

Perhaps there would have been better ways to get his attention. Ways that would have her look less like an indignant child, ways that would not have involved all but throwing everything off the table to plaster herself on it like some needy cat; perhaps a plain punch in the guts would have sufficed at this point.

But here Igeyorhm was, sprawled across Lahabrea’s desk with her arms crossed and a pout on her face—and he was still ignoring her, instead keeping his eyes locked onto the papers in one of his hands and the matrix in the other.

Hell would freeze over before he looked up from that when he was in one of his moods.

Igeyorhm got off the desk and waved her hands around, rearranging the desk into its previous state. That old saying had given her a new idea, one based on the fact that the Speaker had locked his doors and clearly not expected her to all but break into his room. Hood and mask off, it was plain to see that he had skipped sleep and meals for at least three days in a row by now. And while they could live on base aether intake for millennia, there was a joy to be had in properly made food. A joy he forewent whenever those moods struck.

Igeyorhm struck like snake. When Lahabrea turned around to continue his pacing she lunged forward and grabbed the back of his neck. For a moment it was quiet—then Lahabrea let out a high-pitched yelp of surprise as frosty aether glistened in the air surrounding his head. It was a childish trick, something that children learning how to control aether often did to their compeers, but it was efficient enough when applied to a master of fire. The matrix bounced once, twice, clattering loudly as the papers fluttered down to the floor while Lahabrea whirled around.

She gave him an innocent smile that likely fell flat underneath her mask.

“You forgot the meeting,” she said when he shot her a glare from underneath his ruffled blonde hair. “So I was sent to ensure you were merely busy and not dead on the ground in your study.”

He continued glaring, and Igeyorhm shrugged her shoulders while reaching for his mask. He shuffled forwards a little to press it into his face and pulled his hood up. Then, with another wave of her hands, she changed their masks and robes into communal ones.

“You missed naught of import, at the very least, unless you count missing chance to scold the new Emet-Selch for falling asleep in his seat as something of import. Unfortunately it is rather obvious that you have been holed up in here for quite a while, and as your co-worker it is my duty to ensure you do not collapse from exhaustion.”

Lahabrea said nothing and bristled slightly when she grabbed one of his arms and pulled him out of his office.

She may have been one of the most skilled creators in the city as a whole, but there was only one person in Amaurot who could drag the Speaker out of his office with not even a word from the man. Perhaps this was an insignificant thing to be proud of, but Igeyorhm took pride in it regardless. It were the little things that escaped other people that she noticed—and the little things often kept a concept from working the way it was intended to work. If Lahabrea failed to see these things, she was going to see them for him.


	11. Capricorn, Trick Attack

“Err, uhm, sir? Ex… excuse… me…?”

The sound of shattering glass made the young Amaurotine flinch and they pulled the hood further into their face. For a long, long moment silence reigned and Deudalaphon almost carelessly snapped another ball into existence. Steadied himself. Swung. Hit.

More glass shattered, and the kid behind him squeaked in horror.

Oh, he knew very well why his student was terrified. They had every right to be, given how temperamental the young Lahabrea’s outbursts could be. But Deudalaphon had been the boy’s teacher long before this kid, and all things considered, he was doing this on purpose. Very much on purpose. The kid behind him had asked if Lahabrea had been involved with some sort of project that Deudalaphon had spearheaded being cancelled and therefore invoked his ire. 

The answer to that question had been no.

When Emet-Selch’s second-in-command, the young thing that had turned the title down before the current Emet-Selch, passed by and watched the carnage with a lopsided and sheepish grin, Deudalaphon had merely cleared his throat and said that he was perfectly within his rights to do this—after all, he pointed out, the very Chief Hythlodaeus had signed the papers to permit this concept being tested the way it was.

“Sir… the sun’s setting.”

For all his seniority on the Convocation, he was very much content leaving the hard-hitting and important things to the younger folks. Hells, the kid was going to be an excellent replacement—he had already forwarded that suggestion to the discussion table and it was going to be a main topic on the table before the turn of the millennium.

But for as long as he still had the mask and the title, Deudalaphon was going to do as he pleased. And on this merry evening, he was going to make Lahabrea’s life living hell with this new concept. He still needed a name for it, but considering all the pieces of glass and the amused cackling from all of the other tenants of this building as they suggested names for it, one in particular started standing out to him.

The kid—by all rights no more a kid than Lahabrea himself was, of course—eventually braved up a little and all but yanked the club out of his hands.

“For the love of the Underworld, Master Deudalaphon! Lahabrea will already have your head on a silver platter at the drop of a needle, but you needn’t go doing his windows in like a man possessed by an endless gulf of malevolence!”

“Gulf,” Deudalaphon repeated, and the kid’s eyes first widened, then narrowed. “Hmm.”

“… I implore you, please don’t.”

“Changing a single letter in a perfectly suitable word if very likely to tick the dear Speaker off in ways incomprehensible to the common man.”

“Please, don’t.”

For as fantastic a Deudalaphon the kid would make, they certainly lacked insight to the cheeky side of the creation process. The side where quite a good few inventions that made life as a whole better had been penned in petty feuds and even pettier comebacks. Not that this particular game was supposed to be anything but a minor nuisance to Lahabrea in particular.

“Hmm. A minor nuisance made to be a gulf of annoyance… minor gulf…” He almost dramatically snapped his fingers just in time for the Speaker to arrive and every tenant in the building to stare out of their windows in anticipation.

The kid, surprisingly enough, did not shrink away when the Speaker’s aether started swelling up in utter rage at the carnage before him. Perhaps they did know the proper ins and outs of how petty and childish creation could be. All he would have to do was to teach them how to break the rules without going overboard, then.

“What. What have you _done,_ you senile old—“

Before Lahabrea could enter his tirade, Deudalaphon and the kid exchanged a glance.

“Oh, merely testing a new concept—Bureau of the Architect approved, and everything,” the kid chirped.

“Mini golf,” Deudalaphon said. “Works rather nicely. Well, we should go and forward that to the Bureau of the Architect before they close. Be seeing you, Speaker!”


	12. Aquarius, Dark Mind

She had always skulked about in the deepest, darkest recesses of any sort of library she had ever come across. That was one thing that never changed, she noted with a dark smile to herself as she reached for a book—both back in Amaurot she had always been in libraries more than anything else, and every pointless reflection of hers that she came across when wandering the Shards also seemingly was drawn in by the siren call of books. Books that were stacked and ordered in differing yet similar ways, all of them filled with whatever half-remembered truths the shards retained. Histories of mortals, all so different yet similar in ways that made the Unsundered shake their heads when they thought none of their sundered brethren were looking, all filed away on shelves and ready for the harvest. On the Source, things were just the same as they were on the Shards—one difference being that their history was long and varied, all sprinkled with tragedies of both their own and the Convocation’s making.

The body of the student she had taken was perfectly suitable to sate her own curiosity. She had been everywhere and nowhere, carried knowledge she had plucked from other stars and from every continent alike. She knew which were truths and which were elaborately woven lies that Emet-Selch had constructed as if he were trying to reconstruct a bogus tale from Chief Hythlodaeus’ mouth. As if the man still lived.

Emmerololth sighed and brushed some dark hair out of her eyes. The uniform of these Students of Baldesion were passing strange. More robes than anything, despite the fact that this girl was far from talented in the arcane arts. Hells, she was not even a member of the inner circle, those people _blessed_ with the Echo. It had made her an easy target to all but seduce; the jealousy she felt towards those that were _gifted,_ the simmering anger at those who did not feel said jealousy as intensely as she did. Perfectly receptive to a comforting voice that whispered that she did deserve better than this, that she was more valuable than, say, that ridiculous Miqo’te loner with the freakish red eye. Perhaps she ought to report _that_ particular little thing to Emet-Selch in Garlemald. Later.

Emmerololth had merely desired the library, but she needed borrowed flesh for it. The Students of Baldesion that were blessed with the Echo would have no trouble seeing through her disguise if she had taken this body against its owner’s will. An exchange, of sorts—one night in the library for knowledge that even those with the Echo were not privy to. Little did this fool know, she had ruined mortal life and whatever it offered for her; not much unlike how Emet-Selch had lured her in to listen to him, in the end.

The books on this island offered things that other libraries did not, at the very least. While she knew she would never rival even the hideously exhausted and furious Lahabrea in power, Emmerololth brandished a weapon the Speaker had long since abandoned. Knowledge. Knowledge she hoarded, jealously, like a dragon from children’s fables back in Amaurot. Knowledge that she swung in precise ways to ever so slightly tilt the balance, holding it out like scraps for the starved and ignorant masses.

But the book she had reached for turned out to merely offer what she already knew. Speaking of dragons, she muttered to herself as she went over the pages detailing the history of dragonkind here on Hydaelyn.

So vile a name for so sundered an earth.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if her quest for knowledge would lead her further into the heart of this island. Further to where this ominous presence beat like a heart, all wrong and plagued and very much deliberately ignored if not outright contained.

Emmerololth snapped the book shut with a grin on her borrowed face.


	13. Pisces, Xenoglossy

At first, he had believed that particular gift lost to the Sundering. He had lamented it like so many other things until the lament turned into searing anger that blinded him. He spoke first in a familiar language that the mortals understood until, after enough time passed, he all but spoke in an alien tongue that was both frighteningly strange and familiar at the same time to them. He saw it on their faces as he whispered his speeches, knowing full well that if he used his voice to its full extent all that would leave his mouth would be an angry screech.

But as the time passed, he realised that whenever Hydaelyn, damned be Her name, felt threatened enough, the skies turned red and rained fire. The first time he had seen it he had been amidst a group of people beside Emet-Selch and Elidibus both—and they had thought that Termination had visited them again, prompting an almost hysterical laugh full to the brim with dread from the normally so calm and collectedly furious Emissary. But that which came after those incidents was what made Lahabrea even madder.

A gift, mortals called it. A gift that made them hear the echoes of long-past events, a gift that granted them an insight that few others could gain. Eyes unclouded it was called on one Shard. Whisperer, Seer, Oracle, myriad names on the sundered, worthless reflections.

The Echo, some voices on the Source called it. And an Echo it was.

An Echo that let them see and understand.

Those that awakened with that power started seeing the formless that still graced his sight on occasion and that Emet-Selch had to banish from his vision consciously. Suddenly the normally invisible Unsundered that walked amongst the mortals without form or shadow were plainly visible to them.

But, as he found out soon enough, the Echo let them _understand._

That language that no mortal seemed to understand any longer, not on any Shard, not on the Source either. Suddenly those words that only made sense to him and his, were understood for what they meant and not for the alleged alien hissing and growling that they spat. Suddenly mortals plainly understood the insults he hurled at them as they passed, suddenly they saw him when previously he may as well have been a shapeless cloud of aether to them. Those with the Echo and only those _saw and understood._

Yet with their sudden understanding did not come sudden remembrance. Even if a reflection of an old study companion gained the Echo, they did not remember Lahabrea for who he had been. All they saw was a demon without body, without shadow. A demon that spoke in a foreign language that still stirred something within those souls that Hydaelyn ensnared for Her protection. No matter how much he spoke, how close he came to whispered begging as he tried to keep the seething ire and hatred out of his voice—those with the Echo, no matter whose reflection they were, never remembered.

Never.

Not even those he called colleagues once, not even those he had stood with shoulder to shoulder as they stared at an abomination born of their own doubts and fears even as Elidibus rallied them to keep going, that this would be the last thing to fall before they could save their world.

They may have understood him, but even as he whispered their names on this Shard, they did not remember. Titles that had once been revered as being bequeathed to those most suited to the office now sounded like the names of monsters to these mortals—they, in his eyes, the true monsters. Monsters that borrowed the appearance of those he had loved once, those he had lost once.

“Igeyorhm,” he whispered, and all this blue-haired Echo-blessed warrior of the Fourth did was raise her weapon against him.

Understand him they did.

But they would never understand the _true_ meaning of his words.


	14. Ophiuchus, Gravity

Breathe in.

The air tasted stale, stagnating. As if all life had been sucked out if it, and were those blessed with keener sight to be believed, the very aether had been drained from their surroundings like the seas receded before a tsunami. Soon it would oversaturate their surroundings as it twisted and screeched and violently mutated around them, if reports were to be believed. Only when the silence of death and a star faded finally fell over Amaurot would that cacophony subside, having extinguished all life.

Breathe out.

Every breath was an almost dreary reminder that he was very much alive and they were running out of time.

Their course of plan was agreed upon, albeit many voices in the room had hesitantly spoken up after the Fourteenth had marched out on them. While they were all in agreement that this was the most likely successful shot at saving the city they had been entrusted by their forebears, some others would still devote a smidgen of their time to finding another solution. One that did not require so tremendous—outrageous, as the Fourteenth had said—a sacrifice in the truest sense of the word.

Breathe in.

For now, the spires of Amaurot continued gleaming in the afternoon sun as if all their surroundings had not fallen and a substantial amount of new residents had taken refuge amongst the citizens. Truly, if he were not aware of how strangely his heart hammered in his aching chest, Elidibus might have been able to fool himself into believing this was just another evening in Amaurot. Just another summer evening, with the birds that no longer sang suddenly singing from the carefully planted and lovingly raised trees. Just another summer evening where he would pass a gaggle of people discussing something, or Emet-Selch being hounded by his two friends while he declared them the banes of his existence, or Igeyorhm dragging a bristling Lahabrea to at least eat something, or Mitron and Loghrif engaged in another rousing round of their favourite past-time conversation about why Loghrif’s parents wanted Mitron shot at dawn.

Breathe out.

Elidibus felt the glare that bore itself into his back. Venat, ever tenacious and caring Venat, very much agreed with the Fourteenth’s sentiment. While she would never quite speak so boldly as the Fourteenth had—yet it was clear in the way she looked. It was not anger or resentment, yet it was not the same piteous gaze that he sometimes caught from the others. Her glare was one of an emotion Elidibus had no words for, an emotion he would never find the words for.

If no other solution could be found, then he was to be sacrificed along with the rest of the volunteers. A mind to control their creation, a beating heart even if his own ceased to beat in the same breath. This city, its people, it meant more to him than he knew the words for. He would give this seven and thirteen times over, would die fourteen consecutive deaths to ensure the continued safety of Amaurot and her people both. For a city without its people may as well have been a ruin, and people without a place to call home may as well have been monsters fighting for their survival by definition.

He breathed in once more. Tasted the stagnant air, swore he saw another trickle of aether dim before his very eyes.

He would see Amaurot saved, restored to what it should be.

No matter the cost.

Even if they decried him a murderer in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/peerifool_) | [tumblr](https://aethercurrent.tumblr.com/)


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